


Nightfall

by Flipdarkchill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Character Death, Hogwarts Seventh Year, M/M, Memories, Mentor Voldemort (Harry Potter), Mystery, Occlumency, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), The Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23597116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flipdarkchill/pseuds/Flipdarkchill
Summary: Voldemort won the war. Harry Potter becomes his most prized possession.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 87
Kudos: 916





	1. Nightfall

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't need to start another one, but here it is lol...
> 
> I wrote this a long while ago, but I still like it...I took the starting idea from an old fanfiction I read once, Reign of Darkness by nlblake. This story starts similar (only the first chapter I took the scene from, and which I rewrote), but from that scene on it will be completely different from that story.

It was not without loss that Voldemort won the war. It was not without death either, and Severus Snape, current Headmaster of Hogwarts, knew that one very well. He glanced over at Minerva McGonagall, the head of Gryffindor house, and saw the longing, ached, pained expression that roamed over her face every now and then. She was probably thinking of Dumbledore.

It was a new school year, and the second since the Dark Lord’s reign had ‘officially’ begun. Dumbledore had died a tragic death. No one really understood what had happened to him, but Severus could take a wild guess–the Dark Lord had made sure to flaunt his body at the parade celebrating his victory, and Severus had caught sight of his crooked and gnarled hand, evidence of a powerful, lethal curse. Severus grimaced at the memory of the parade. Seeing Dumbledore displayed upside-down for everyone to mock had certainly caused him nightmares. And since most of the Order died in a foolish raid on Malfoy Manor shortly after his parting, since Severus was ‘officially’ a Death Eater… he had been ordered to stand and watch the slaughter instead of helping. Lupin had outright cursed him as a traitor before he died. Severus did not care but that did not stop the… pangs of regret. Not that there was anything he could do about it now.

The doors to the Great Hall opened and the first years walked in, ready to be sorted. There weren’t many first years, Severus noted, Muggleborn’s being expelled since Voldemort’s takeover, their wands snapped in half without so much as a questioning glance. Lead by the Carrow’s, the students stopped short of the staff table and turned to face the hat. Severus knew the hat wouldn’t sing again this year. It hadn’t said a word since the day Dumbledore died and the Dark Lord won. Not that he minded. The singing would be misplaced in such despairing times. Perhaps the hat knew this as well.

As the sorting went on, and names were called, Severus had to speculate at the absence of the Dark Lord. Their Lord had made it somewhat of a tradition to visit Hogwarts on the first day of the year, and occasionally on holidays. What could possibly be keeping him this time…?

Almost in contradiction to his thoughts, as soon as the sorting had ended, and a mumbling quiet settled over the Hall, the doors opened once again and in walked the Dark Lord, with the face of his younger self tantalizing his audience into compliance and obedience with bated breath. Everyone knew the face of the Dark Lord. He had changed his appearance since winning the war in order to breed approval and acceptance amongst wizarding society. Now, only a shadow of his old body remained in his red eyes and deathly pale skin. He wasn’t alone, however. Behind him walked a figure in a black cloak. Severus tried to discern who it could be, but his mind was drawing a blank. He carefully constructed an impassive face as the Dark Lord stopped to address him. Everyone sat still to listen, hardly daring to breathe. 

“I bring you a new student, Severus. His obedience has pleased me, so I sought to grant him his wish to attend Hogwarts with his fellow classmates.” Voldemort placed a delicate hand on the figure’s shoulder, and Severus noticed how the figure, although subtle, flinched. Voldemort smirked as he gently lifted the hood from his cloaked companion. As it fell, Severus’s eyes went wide from shock. He barely even noticed how Minerva McGonagall’s face had gone as white as death itself, or how the students were gasping, stretching their necks to get a better look at who it was: for Severus Snape had eyes for only one Harry Potter, who, up until now, everyone believed to be dead.

“M-My Lord?”

“Severus, I am sure you will make the proper adjustments for our newest student, along with a few reasonable accommodations regarding his attendance. I will speak to you in private about the matter.”

And that was that. Whatever explanation the Dark Lord had for Potter being alive, or even back in Hogwarts, it was safe to assume it was a forbidden topic, at least, for now. Severus could hardly control his eyes that lingered on Potter with daring disbelief, as both the Dark Lord and the boy made their way up to the staff table. It was well known that the Dark Lord’s forces had captured Potter, Weasley, and the Granger child during the heaviest part of the war two years ago. It was assumed they had been killed, along with countless others, by the Dark Lord himself. Severus could see no reason for Voldemort to keep Potter alive.

_Unless...._

Severus watched from beside as the Dark Lord leaned in to hiss in Potter’s ear. He noticed how the boy was shaking from whatever was being said. Severus returned to his meal with a nagging sensation in his stomach that somehow, something was not quite right.

* * *

_"Tell me, Harry, how you are enjoying the festivities? You look awfully pale…whatever is the matter?”_

_“Nothing. I just feel a b-bit nervous.”_

_"You know, darling, I can always have you home-schooled if public school is not fit for your well-being? We can leave immediately if you–”_

_"No! No, please–please, I-I’m just tired and– “_

_“I know you are capable of behaving, Harry, when I wish you to behave. But be warned: if you so much as step a foot outside of the boundaries I have placed for you here, I will personally bring you home and you will never see the light of day again, let alone your dear little friends. Is that clear?”_

_“Yes…”_

* * *

As Voldemort walked towards the fireplace in the Headmaster’s office, the feast having concluded and the student’s gone back to their dormitories, Snape following behind him at a brisk pace, Harry stayed near the door, hoping the others had very much forgotten about him. He was proven wrong in mere seconds when Voldemort signalled for him to stand beside him. Harry obeyed, but stopped just short of Voldemort’s reach. Voldemort normally would be angry, Harry knew, but for some reason he let it slide and focused instead on Snape, who was kneeling in front in a show of subservience.

“Rise, Severus.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

When Snape rose, Harry turned away from his sharp gaze and focused instead on his shoes. He listened as Voldemort laid out the guidelines for Harry’s attendance, and hoped that Snape, of all people, would not pity him.

“Harry is to be resorted into Slytherin. I’m sure you will have no objections to that, Severus. He will have his own room, which will be accommodated to suit myself should I happen to visit. If he gets into any trouble, report to me first before any punishments are dealt.” Voldemort then walked over and roughly pulled Harry closer to him.

Wrapping his arms around him in a cold embrace, Harry went still and frozen as Voldemort’s head came to rest beside his ear. He closed his eyes. His scar was still painful, but he had grown used to it. Voldemort even made the feeling pleasant on occasion, to which Harry had cringed when he first felt it.

“Besides that, Harry Potter is a valuable possession of _mine_ , and I trust, Severus, that he will experience no harm while he is here at Hogwarts. _And you, love, will see to it that you do not betray the little amount of trust I have placed in you. Be a good boy and you will not be harmed.”_

“I will be back tomorrow to see how he is settling in… otherwise I shall leave him in your care. Severus.”

With that note, Voldemort apparated out of Hogwarts, and likely, Harry thought, back to Riddle manor where he and Harry had stayed for the past two years. Harry didn’t dare look up. He couldn’t stand the humiliation, the way Voldemort treated him like an object to be won and had. The way he had treated Harry every day since his capture. He had kept Harry in secrecy since the war ended. His friends still lived, if only as leverage for Harry’s obedience and compliance. Only now was he faced with the truth of his complete and utter defeat as little more than a toy for Voldemort to play with. But still, even Harry had no idea why Voldemort had chosen to let him live, even come back to Hogwarts, despite the excuse that it was for his ‘obedience’ and ‘good behaviour’. With the silence growing thick around them, Harry noticed how Snape was walking around the office, seeming to ignore him completely. Then Snape spoke quietly, almost to himself, and without looking up said,

“We both know what we must do Potter. Whether it be this or something else.” he sighed, then walked over to the door, “I will escort you to the Slytherin dormitory. I have a room in mind.”

And with that note he left the office, his black cloak billowing behind and Harry following solemnly after.


	2. Chapter 2

Snape dutifully brought Harry to a large, singular room within the Slytherin dormitory; yet he felt so out of place, alone, and Hogwarts had never felt so distant and cold now that he was actually here. Draco had been there, one of the many curious faces in the common room as he walked past. He looked at Harry with about as much pity as Snape had. Well, Harry did not want pity. He had enough of it to last a lifetime.

With a sigh he collapsed on the bed. If Voldemort had _not_ won the war two years ago, Harry would have been in his seventh year. As it was, he had a lot of catching up to do. Not that it worried him–or mattered. Although it was Harry’s desire to come back to school, a desire Voldemort strangely sought to grant, Hogwarts had become just as much of a prison as Voldemort's manor ever was. 

Harry shuddered to think of what would happen in the next few days. He wished Ron and Hermione were here, but under Voldemort’s new ‘rules’, he wasn’t sure Hermione would even be _allowed_. He punched the pillow in anger. Everything was wrong. Everything felt wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be in Slytherin, he was a _Gryffindor_ , but Voldemort made it possible with just a few words. He wasn’t supposed to have his own room, but again, Voldemort made it possible for Harry to have the whole world at his feet. He wondered what the point was. He was Voldemort’s enemy, and Voldemort his. Would that ever change?

With a shudder he didn’t know he’d been suppressing, Harry dozed into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

_Harry_.

“Harry!”

Harry sat up groggily. He rubbed at his eyes, his glasses nearly falling off, but as they focused, he noticed several people were standing in his room. All were students, some Harry didn’t recognize, but a few he did, like Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, and Theodore Nott. They were all dressed and ready for the day. Harry wondered how late he had slept in.

“Breakfast is starting.” Draco commented, looking around the large room with mild fascination, “Get dressed. We’ll meet you in the common room and then head down.”

Harry just stared. Was Draco Malfoy being civil to him, Harry Potter? Sure, they were in the same house now, but that didn’t mean Draco had to be nice about it. And so, Harry had to ask, partly because Draco was the last person who he thought would be nice without some sort of hidden agenda. Draco thought for a long moment, then replied,

“Because… up until now, everyone thought you were dead. I don’t know why the Dark Lord kept you alive, but now that you’re here …at Hogwarts… well, we may as well get along, right?”

There was a general nodding of heads, with some occasional scowls, but other than that Harry was shocked. Then his eyes narrowed. He considered for a moment that this was all Voldemort’s doing, that Draco and the others were _ordered_ to stick around him and be nice. But he kept that thought to himself and decided to just get dressed.

As the others slowly made their way out of his room, Draco gave him a small, fleeting smile before he too took off. A part of him felt like befriending Draco would be a betrayal to Ron and Hermione, but Harry no longer held any deep grudges for anyone except Voldemort. 

Once he was dressed and fully prepared for whatever the day would bring, he went down to the common room, and found Draco waiting patiently for him by the fire.

“Ready? The others decided to head down first. Pansy is a freak about breakfast. Trust me.”

“Really?” Harry muttered idly, and then they walked through the dungeons and towards the Great Hall.

“So how did you… you know… how did….”. Draco apparently couldn’t go on. And Harry, having a bubbling anxiety about the day ahead, finally snapped at what had been bugging him since Draco fist walked through his door.

“So that’s what this is about?” he stopped walking, and looked to the floor angrily “That’s why you’re being nice? To find out why I survived, and others didn’t?”

“What? No! I was just… wondering – that’s all! I swear!” Draco said, now ashamed that he had asked the question at all.

“Whatever. Let’s just go.” And as they walked, with Draco clearly frustrated that his friendliness had so terribly backfired, Harry noticed a strange feeling deep inside of him. That no matter what Draco’s intentions were, whether he was sent on Voldemort’s orders, whether he was sincerely wondering about Harry’s past, or whether this was all just a clever display of Slytherin tactics to find out more, somehow, he was long past the point of caring.

* * *

Snape handed him his timetable during breakfast. Apparently, Harry was to have a very full schedule that allowed almost no room for inactivity. Good. He didn't care about making friends anymore. Still, he couldn’t say that he really cared about getting extraordinarily high marks either; he was content just to pass. He was sure Voldemort wouldn’t feel the same. After all, it was Voldemort who had made him come back here with the intent to learn. But as Harry shrugged off the feeling, and letters arrived along with the morning _daily prophet_ , he wondered, perhaps for the thousandth time since the day he was captured, the same thing Draco wondered earlier:

Why Harry had survived… and why he was currently under Voldemort’s protection.

* * *

The day passed slowly. Apparently, Snape wasn’t teaching potions anymore, and Harry was pleased to note that the new teacher, a plump man named Horus Slughorn, didn’t dare pick on him–as it was, Harry was sure the professor did not look at him once during the entire lesson.

Their Defence teacher, Amycus Carrow, who simultaneously taught the Dark Arts, was a tall, lean man who had a tendency for sadistic torture in the name of learning. Harry had long since squashed down any ill feelings he had for darker spells, however, there was still a limit on what he would and would not do, Voldemort be damned.

It was strange to see the Gryffindors, people he used to know and talk with, now passing by him in a hurry, not wanting to associate with him. Although that wasn’t always true. Harry had seen Neville stop in the corridor, and Luna had waved, looking like she wanted to say something. But then it was Harry who had avoided eye contact, looked down and walked the other way. He didn’t want them involved.

By sundown, Harry was used to the stares and whispers that followed him around; not being very hungry, he skipped dinner and took refuge in the library, spending the rest of his free time reading about snitches. Because while homework should have been his only priority, right then Harry’s mind was still preoccupied with what he had seen in Voldemort’s office when the man was claiming Dumbledore’s will, not even a year ago.

“ _Do you know what this is?” Voldemort said softly towards Harry, seated behind his desk, smiling, but his eyes were blazing red._

_“A snitch…?” Harry was confused. He looked away._

_“Yes. But tell me Harry. Why would Dumbledore leave you a snitch as his final parting? What significance does it hold? Tell me. I’m intrigued.”_

_And Harry said nothing, because he knew of no real significance that a snitch held between him and his old mentor. He felt an overwhelming despair, then, that the final thing Dumbledore had left him to defeat Voldemort was an old snitch. But when Voldemort revealed that snitches also came with flesh memories, and as the snitch was the first one Harry had ever caught, touching it with the same hand might reveal something new._

_Harry’s heart had skipped when Voldemort grabbed his hand and pressed the snitch into Harry’s right palm. He had wanted so badly for something to happen, for something useful, a letter, or a shrunken object, and at the same time, felt frustrated because he knew that if something did reveal itself, Voldemort would take it away just the same. So, when nothing happened, Harry gave a visible sigh of relief, while Voldemort tore the snitch away from Harry’s prying fingers._

_“It seems it really is just a snitch. Pity. But mildly expected of the senile old fool.”_

_Harry was glad when he was finally dismissed, and Voldemort none the wiser, because he had realized with a jolt when he closed the door that he had not caught the snitch with his hand, in that very first game, but with his mouth…._

* * *

Harry wanted nothing more than to go to sleep when he got back to the dormitory in Slytherin. He was tired from the day, but he still remembered Voldemort’s promise to ‘check-in’ on how he was doing after his first day. So, when he arrived, and the entire common room was empty, an oddity at this early hour, it was with trepidation that he walked towards his rooms where he knew, behind the door, Voldemort would be waiting.

Indeed, once Harry opened the door, it was to find Voldemort sitting on a green, plush couch by a fireplace that hadn’t been there earlier this morning. Without preamble, Voldemort gestured for him to sit beside him. Harry sat down nervously, as far away as acceptably possible. He didn’t want to anger the man so soon into his Hogwarts year. Knowing what was to come, Harry mentally braced himself as the man grabbed his chin, forcing him to lock eyes as Voldemort smoothly entered his mind. Harry wasn’t the best at occlumency, but he knew enough not to dwell on what he had been doing in the library that evening. While it wasn't exactly a secret he meant to keep, Harry didn't want Voldemort to second-guess the snitch, at least, not until Harry could do something. When the man was finally finished, looking into whatever memories he felt he needed, he loosened his grip but didn’t immediately let go.

_“How was your first day, Harry?”_ Voldemort hissed softly, “ _I’ll admit that I myself am feeling somewhat nostalgic…”_

_“It was fine, I—I had a normal day…”_

_“I see you didn’t have any dinner though. Not hungry? Harry, you know how I loathe it when you fail to eat meals....”_

Thankfully, the man finally released Harry, and with a snap of his fingers, a house-elf appeared, bowing. While Voldemort ordered him something to eat, Harry’s mind wandered to Dobby, and wondered where the little elf was now. Hopefully somewhere safe and… free.

When the elf popped back with a plate full of food, Harry felt awkward as he was forced into eating in front of the man. Voldemort watched as Harry slowly ate his dinner and he vowed never to skip another one if he had to suffer through this. When he was finally finished, the elf came back to take his plate, leaving them once again in silence.

“I brought you something. A gift.” Voldemort said, smiling, capturing Harry’s attention at once.

Whatever it was, Harry was sure he didn’t want it. He already felt sick from the food. His heart was in his throat as Voldemort brought out his wand and started summoning something between them. He didn’t want it, he didn’t want anything, he didn’t want—

“It’s a family heirloom of mine. I want you to wear it.”

A glittering silver necklace with a large locket was shining just in front of him, and without waiting for him to take it and put it on, he hovered it over Harry’s head, then weaved in another spell, and Harry felt the locket thud against his chest in a cold finality.

“I hope you’ll find it… _comforting_ , in my absence.”

Harry wanted nothing more than to take it and rip it off, but as it was, he merely shuddered and leaned back, suddenly drowsy. Was it him, or was the world tilting sideways? He distantly felt himself fall onto someone’s lap, and cool fingers running through his hair, but Harry was too tired to resist.

“I didn’t expect it to have such an immediate effect on you… but I am pleased, nonetheless.” he sighed, then, switching to parseltongue, “ _I doubt you’ll remember much of this conversation, Harry, but do try to be on your best behavior. I’ll be visiting Hogwarts regularly throughout the year, and I wish to do so in peace.”_

The next time Harry awoke, it was the middle of the night. He was in his bed and dressed in his pajamas, the fireplace and couch were gone, and although he wished it were but a nightmare, he could feel the sharp metal of the necklace digging into his neck, his heart thrumming against the large silver locket. And maybe it was just his imagination, but he thought he could feel the locket too, beating back.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry didn’t try to take off the locket the next morning. He knew, instinctively, that he wouldn’t be able to. Not for the first time, he wondered when he had become so…docile. Apathetic.

_Is this what it feels like… to live without hope…?_

And while the locket was strange, gaudy, and heavy, it turned out to be the least of Harry’s problems throughout the following week.

It was true: Harry had a knack for causing trouble. Or rather, trouble seemed to find him, no matter the circumstances. Harry somehow being alive and not dead had turned him into a rumor frenzy, where even Snape could not stop the damning whispers that followed Harry around wherever he went. 

_I heard he’s the Dark Lord’s heir…._

_I think he keeps him as some sort of…pet!_

_Do you think it’s true? He’s the Dark Lord’s whore? Why is he not fighting then?_

And through it all, Harry just wanted to scream. He wanted to deny everything, but he couldn’t say a word without having to talk about _it._ His days spent at Voldemort’s manor, the time when he was half asleep and half living in a nightmare. He didn’t want to talk about it. And if that meant the rumors flying around his head were left to speculation and gossip, well, there was nothing he could do. And besides, he didn’t _care_.

As the days slowly passed, and tensions rose, Harry was left to wonder if he’d ever have a peaceful year at Hogwarts. Surprisingly, the Slytherins didn’t bother him this time around. No, it was every other house that seemed to have a problem with Harry being alive.

On the final day of the week, a daring group of sixth year Hufflepuffs decided to corner Harry and demand answers. Answers about their dead relatives. Answers to why _he_ was still alive when others, their relatives, had died in his place. When Harry refused to answer, the group had tried to hex him, only for McGonagall to come into the scene and disperse the group before they could attack.

But even after the Hufflepuffs had gained a week's worth of detentions, it wasn’t enough to quell the sick feeling in Harry’s stomach.

_Is this what everyone thinks of me?_

He didn’t even notice when McGonagall ushered him into her office nearby. All he could feel was a perpetual self-loathing and a deep, unrelenting anger at Voldemort that he couldn’t put into words.

“Potter…Harry…”

Harry jolted, and when he noticed McGonagall looking at him, he said,

“Sorry, professor…. I was just—”

“It’s quite alright. I was just saying that if you ever need anyone to talk to, you are always welcome here in my office. I may not always be available, but don’t let that deter you.”

Harry nodded, and surprisingly, found an emotion in him that was not angry at everything, but rather quite sad at how things had turned out, and a little hopeful at what his professor was offering him.

“I—thank you.”

On his way out, after a cup of hot chocolate and a peaceful quiet between them (Harry still wasn’t ready to talk), he left in a better mood than he had all week. 

* * *

Harry tried to make the most of the weekend when it came. He didn’t really talk to Draco since that first day, nor any of the other Slytherins. However, it wasn’t as if they left him alone either— on the contrary, they walked him to breakfast, lunch, and dinner throughout the entire week, sat beside him in class, and attempted to talk to him about anything _other_ than the overbearing news that had plastered the Daily Prophet ever since his ‘return’ to Hogwarts: _Harry Potter Lives!_

Theodore Nott, at least, was making a valiant effort to not scowl whenever he tried to talk to Harry. Pansy was annoying, so Harry largely ignored her, and Draco seemed to be trying to find something in common with Harry by updating him on all the happenings around the school in the time he was gone. For that, at least, Harry was grateful.

“Quidditch is no more, and the teams suffered a large blow when you… left. The Dark Lord didn’t feel Quidditch was pertinent to learning…but we can still form clubs, and on the holidays, some of the old members agreed to holding competitive matches, either here or in a nearby field. It’s not the best, but it is what it is….”

While Harry listened to this, he sat staring out the library window. It was raining outside, and the seventh year Slytherins had gathered in the library to study over the weekend—but while most were busy pursuing their books, Harry had a hard time concentrating on his. His mind kept repeating what little information he knew, his fingers tracing the locket around his neck while he daydreamed. It really was an odd necklace. Harry was sure he’d heard whispers coming from it late at night. But then again, perhaps he was just dreaming.

“Potter.” a voice called across the library, and Harry turned to see a Ravenclaw coming his way.

“You’re wanted in the Headmaster’s office. Professor Snape has asked that you come immediately.”

While the Slytherins pretended to be interested in their books rather than the conversation at hand, Harry bundled up his things and said a hasty goodbye before leaving them in the library.

Dread blossomed in his stomach as he walked, as Harry didn’t know what could possibly warrant this meeting. He had done nothing wrong yet, and this meeting could literally be about anything.

When he approached the gargoyle, who stepped immediately out of the way, Harry rode up the swirling staircases, then knocked hesitantly on the door. While Harry could easily admit he was nervous, it was not without good reason. Whenever he and Snape had met in the past, the situation had always been tense, and Harry was nearly always in trouble over something.

He silently prayed this was not the case. He didn’t want to be punished by—

The door opened, and Harry approached the new Headmaster of Hogwarts.

* * *

Times were dark, and Severus Snape knew only how to minimize casualties by talking students out of fighting back against the Dark Lord’s regime. It wasn’t as though he didn’t agree with some of his Lord’s plans for the wizarding world, but the man was prone to taking his anger out on war victims when nothing else could be done to ease his… turbulent emotions. It was partly why Severus did not fight with the Order at Malfoy Manor, after Dumbledore’s death, because he knew students of old Light families would need guidance in a troubling future where they would have little rights—and though he loathed young people in general, Severus knew the Dark Lord well enough to steer the children clear of any radical thoughts and plans.

So, it was on a Saturday evening when he called the most problematic child of them all into his office to set some things straight within his mind. He had seen the way Potter acted during the opening feast, and it did little to calm his mind that something was…not right. Oh, Severus was highly aware that he was playing a dangerous game by calling Potter in alone, without the Dark Lord present, but he needed to find out what the boy knew. And, if possible, perhaps give him the tools to strengthen his mind if there was little else Severus could do…the boy was still Lily’s child, and he would damn himself before he broke that specific vow.

“Potter…” when the boy finally came into the office, Severus noticed an immediate tension in his body, as though expecting to be reprimanded. It didn’t surprise him in the least.

“Sit down.” Severus gestured towards the chair in front of his desk. In Dumbledore’s days as Headmaster, the desk would have been full of odd trinkets and little whirling instruments. Severus saw no need for these, and besides that, the Dark Lord had cleared most of the office of Dumbledore’s things nearly two years ago. But now, with Harry Potter sitting before him, he realized how…odd it was for the office to be so bare, for Severus to be Headmaster, and for the boy to be sitting before him instead of the wizened old man. The portraits pretended to sleep, while Dumbledore’s portrait was muffled with heavy black curtains surrounding it. Only the Dark Lord could open them, and Severus was anything but a fool to even attempt trying.

“You are not in any trouble, Potter… I only wished to see how you are settling in, and anything that may be troubling you…”

Potter looked up at this, a confused look to his eyes that made Severus frown.

“Everything is… fine…sir…just I—I guess there are some rumors going around and…”

Ah yes. _Those_ rumors. Severus had heard them too, in the whispering students and staff, and even the portraits could not refrain from sprouting out nonsense whenever they pleased about the boy-who-lived.

Severus gently, to avoid suspicion, prodded the boy’s mind for answers, and found images and sounds associated with the rumors going on about him. He also sensed a deep emotion within, something close to _shame_ and _guilt_ , that brought Severus out of Harry Potter’s head rather abruptly. 

Was the boy feeling shame because he did not fight the Dark Lord? Or perhaps there was some truth to all those rumors indeed….

“Tell me, Potter. How good are you at defending the mind against intrusion?”

Potter looked startled at this inquiry, and much to Severus’s guess, quickly produced some feeble looking barriers to protect against the possibility of intrusion. Severus could easily see where Potter would need some tutoring in Occlumency, if he wanted to keep people out, and how easily the boy had probably succumbed to the Dark Lord’s powerful mind techniques in the past, and possibly future, if Severus did not teach him anything. He did not know how well the Dark Lord would take it if Severus so crudely intervened, to teach Harry Potter the skills to protect himself. But he could, at least, do it through other, more subtle, means.

Yes, perhaps Draco Malfoy, under Severus’s protection and vow, could teach Potter some Occlumency lessons in secret. It would have to be in private, at night, perhaps, but somewhere that, if it should ever come to the Dark Lord’s attention, Severus could not be accused of hiding the fact from his Lord. 

Severus would send a letter to the Malfoy heir tonight.

And if that was all he could do for Harry Potter, Lily’s son, then he would do it. If it eased the sense of guilt and betrayal Severus felt every day, for not being able to protect the boy from the Dark Lord’s grasp…well, that was another matter entirely.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry watched quietly as yet another student was subjected to the cruciatus curse in the middle of class. Professor Carrow was currently teaching them the basics of the unforgivable curses, a mandatory topic for seventh year students. However, some of the students were still hesitating to perform the curse, and thus, Carrow had showed them the punishment for under-performing in his class.

A Ravenclaw girl was currently screaming on the floor. When the professor let up the spell, she gasped and then, clutching herself, slowly got to her feet; she was still shaking by the time she returned to her chair.

“Do I need another example to discipline you children?” Carrow said shortly. “Now go and practice. You are only to use the spell on your classmates for a total of three seconds, if any of you can even manage that. Now pair up and show me if you are capable of serving our Lord.”

Harry was going to pair with Draco, but the blonde was looking nervous for some reason, and Harry was ultimately left alone with Theodore Nott, who looked both angry and alarmed at having Harry as a partner. Harry didn’t fully understand why until a girl flinched violently away from him when she accidentally bumped into his shoulder. The realization came to him slowly, and by the time it was Harry and Nott’s turn to cast the spell, he understood it all the same.

_They’re afraid of me. They’re afraid of Voldemort’s wrath should anything happen…._

Despite Harry’s initial hesitation, he felt he knew the spell deeply; it was one of Voldemort’s favourites, after all. He wasn’t entire aware of himself as he cast the curse, performing it flawlessly on Nott. Nott fell to the floor screaming. Harry let it go after three seconds, and when the teacher came by, Nott was panting heavily and seething for revenge.

“Well done Potter. I had my doubts…but seeing you now…” he left the statement open, while clapping Harry on the shoulder. Harry felt sick. Why had he even—

“Well Nott? Are you going to reciprocate?”

Nott looked like he was having trouble breathing. His frown deepened, and his hands shook when he aimed at Harry. When he finally said the words, Harry knew instinctively that it was not going to work. Sure enough, the spell evaporated as quickly as it hit him in the chest, barely causing Harry any pain.

“T-That was—” Nott pleaded for a second attempt, but the teacher was already turning away, having already noted Nott’s failed effort on his scoreboard.

Harry, meanwhile, was coping with the fact that, out of the entire class of seventh years, he was one of the only ones able to perform the curse successfully. He didn’t want—he hated it—but it wasn’t his fault he had—he had ….

_“Try again. You are not feeling. You need to_ feel _it, Harry. You need to hate him more than existence itself…”_

_Harry stared down at the man he had once known as Wormtail, crumpled and tied up on the floor of Voldemort’s manor. His beady eyes were looking straight at him, pleading for Harry to spare him._

_Harry had no sympathy for this man, not anymore. But still, he did not like the way Voldemort had… coaxed Harry into trying the unforgivable. He did not like the way Voldemort had allowed Harry to vent his pent-up anger out on Pettigrew, to curse the man in any which way he wanted. That Harry had chosen the cruciatus curse was not a surprise._

_Here was the man who betrayed his parents. The man who betrayed his friends. The man who had cursed Harry to a life at the Dursley’s. The man who had put Sirius in Azkaban for twelve years and had destroyed so many others in the process…yes, Harry hated this man. He knew that in his heart. So why was it so hard to muster up enough hate to cast the spell?_

_Then, he knew. He knew it in the way Voldemort circled around him, corrected his wand position, hovered just behind him with soft touches and whispers of encouragement in his ear._

_Because even beyond Peter Pettigrew, even beyond Bellatrix for killing his Godfather… Harry hated Voldemort more than anyone else._

_The next time he cast the spell, Wormtail screamed._

* * *

Harry washed his anxieties away in the bathroom at lunch, splashing cold water on his face to ease the paleness in his skin.

Earlier in the day, Draco had approached him with an opportunity to learn Occlumency in the evenings, provided he wasn’t busy with homework or other things. He wanted to accept so badly, but he was afraid too. Afraid of the…repercussions should he actually succeed.

_But I can learn it, can’t I? Voldemort didn’t exactly say yes, but he didn’t say no either…._

His meeting with Snape had left Harry confused. The man was being very careful with his words, and Harry had already guessed that Draco approaching him with Occlumency was not a coincidence— the underlying message was clearly from Snape: that he needed to learn Occlumency if he wanted to survive. If he wanted to… fight….

But did Harry even want to fight back? What was left to fight for, in a world dominated by Voldemort?

_Ron and Hermione, for one thing._ Harry thought guiltily.

He splashed more water, but his paleness didn’t subside.

* * *

Harry often dreamt of strange things. Last night, he dreamt of the locket again, whispering things to him in the dark. It was always in parseltongue too, which made Harry feel…uneasy, whenever he woke up. Sometimes, he even dreamed that the locket took on the shape of a person, although that person was always drenched in shadow, just out of reach.

Over the next weekend, Harry was suddenly consumed with the strong desire to escape. He was two weeks into the month of September, and already he wanted nothing more than to run away from it all. Escape from people, escape from everything that felt wrong in his life. He knew of only one place that could satisfy his need.

The room of requirement.

When Harry paced three times in front of the wall, his mind wandered, so when a door finally appeared, he wasn’t entirely sure what the room would look like.

He opened the door tentatively, and perhaps, was surprised to find that the room had seen to his request for peace in the form of the Gryffindor common room. He walked inside, feeling nostalgic and…happy, to see his old common room…as though he had never truly left. Even though he knew it was just a false image, sitting beside the fire on the red, plush couches, Harry felt a deep sense of calm. No one could disturb him here… Harry wanted to stay the night but knew that if he didn’t turn up to the Slytherin dormitory, Voldemort would hear about it. The room was his, for now.

Without thinking, Harry curled up on the couch and fell asleep by the fire.

* * *

When Harry was small, the Dursley’s had been the only ones he truly feared. No food and his cupboard as punishment had seemed like the only things that could cause him misery. Dudley, in all his massive weight, had been the most frightening bully Harry could have ever imagined.

Now, it seemed almost laughable that Harry had ever thought the Dursley’s could hurt him. Oh, they had starved him, for sure, beaten him, locked him in his room with bars on the window when he was only twelve. The Dursley’s were no saints. But to even compare his relatives to the true terror Harry had felt when he was first captured by Voldemort two and a half years ago…was nothing short of ridiculous. No, the Dursley’s could not compare to that feeling of… helplessness. When he couldn’t save his friends. When he could do nothing to stop Bellatrix from murdering his godfather. When Dumbledore died, and his secret mission died too, and Harry still had no idea what it was. The Headmaster had been…elusive, during those days in the war. The war nobody had expected to be quite what it was. The war that had started in the summer of Harry’s fifth year and ended not long afterwards, when Dumbledore had unexpectedly died.

Harry still blamed himself for his death. Even Voldemort was particularly…touchy about the subject. Harry had not, thankfully, been forced into attending that victory parade showcasing the old Headmaster’s body. It was cruel, and Voldemort had not pushed Harry…although perhaps the man had his own reasons for keeping Harry out of the public eye for so long.

When Harry woke up, it was nearly midnight, and he didn’t want to move from his comfortable position by the fire in the fake Gryffindor common room. He hoped no one noticed his absence, but that was probably a false hope. He would surely hear about it tomorrow. Maybe he could sneak downstairs and—

Harry jumped when he saw a shadow move out of the corner of his eye. Then, without preamble, the shadow moved into the centre of the room, and slowly unveiled itself. Harry sank further into the chair in order to get away, but then a very familiar, yet entirely different, Voldemort stepped out from the shadows of the room.

“Hello Harry. I think it’s about time we met in person.”

Harry only just noticed how the necklace around his throat was growing hot, and how cold his own skin had become. For it wasn’t Voldemort standing before him, but a younger Tom Riddle, slightly older than the diary had been, standing nonchalantly in the middle of the room, looking every bit the Heir of Slytherin as he had at sixteen.

“Forgive me if I’m being too forward, but I fear our time is short, and I’ve only _just_ gotten to know you…do you mind if I sit down?” Riddle asked, coming to sit beside him regardless of Harry’s opinion, so very near to Harry that Harry felt crowded on the small couch.

“Now then. We don’t have much time. _He_ could be coming, and before he does, we need to establish some groundwork. I cannot possess your body, he has already stopped that avenue from happening, but that doesn’t mean we can’t… cooperate. What do you know of Horcruxes, Harry?”

When Harry failed to provide an answer other than opening his mouth to gape, too overwhelmed with the proximity of the other boy to even think of the question properly, Riddle seemed to think better of it too.

“Never mind. It was unlikely, in itself, I just thought—perhaps— _considering_. Alright, then what do you know of Voldemort’s current plans? I’ve already read your mind and—”

“You— _what?_ Hold on! How are you here and how did—how did—”

“Oh, I thought you would have figured it out by now. The locket Voldemort gave you is no ordinary locket, Harry. Now if you listen closely, maybe we can both—”

He stopped speaking, and listened, then jumped to his feet.

“He’s here. I have to go. If you value your sanity, don’t mention that we talked about anything significant. In fact, don’t mention that we spoke at all.”

With that, the burning around Harry’s neck ceased, and the shadow of Tom Riddle swept up and slunk back into the locket now that Harry actually noticed it. He tried to take it off, too afraid of the implications (if it were anything like the diary…), but he couldn’t get it past his head without it becoming unbearably heavy.

Just when Harry had given up, the door creaked open, and Voldemort strode inside, looking comically startled at the blunt Gryffindor décor of the room, before his eyes latched onto Harry, and a slow smirk crept onto his face.

“What do we have here? _Harry…_ shouldn’t you be in bed? Although I suppose it _is_ the weekend….”

_“Master, is there any food? I’m starving….”_

Harry shivered as Nagini slithered in as well, following Voldemort inside the room, crawling up onto one of the couches.

_“No, there’s no food here, Nagini. I will remember to get you something later on…although, maybe a house-elf will be suitable for you? I can call one up, my dearest, if that would make you happy…”_

_“Oh please, I’m starving!”_

Harry watched in silent horror as Voldemort called one of the little elves unknowingly into the room and then, without warning, Nagini lunged. Her fangs sank into the poor creature’s neck, and then the house-elf, Harry didn’t even catch their name, was slowly engulfed by the massive snake.

He closed his eyes. He hoped it wasn’t a friend of Dobby’s....

Suddenly, he felt sick. Harry immediately stood up and headed for the door, intending to go back to the dungeons, but Voldemort was faster and pulled him back sharply by his arm, catching him in an odd sort of embrace. Harry’s heart thudded inside his chest, while Voldemort’s arms wrapped around him in a twisted form of a hug. Harry didn’t move. He didn’t dare. Then Voldemort spoke in a soft tone that had Harry feeling detached from whatever he was experiencing.

“I’ve missed you, Harry, these past two weeks. Maybe I _should_ pull you out of school…” he murmured quietly against Harry’s head, “… and you could always learn at _home_ ….”

Harry inhaled sharply at the words, and although he would not beg, he felt he came very close to it in his next words.

“Please…I… I like it here…I’m doing _fine_ …I’m sorry I’m out of bed… I’ll do better and not—”

“Shh Harry, it’s alright…I won’t pull you out…no, it’s better if you stayed, for now…. Although, I am wondering what you are doing here, so late at night, in a room not so unlike the Gryffindor common room.”

“I-I’m sorry I was just—” Harry unexpectedly felt tears well in his eyes. He wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t—not in front of—

“Shh…It’s alright, Harry…I won’t punish you, this time…”

If possible, he pulled Harry tighter against him, and then said in a soft hiss the one thing Harry truly feared above all possible punishments. The one thing Harry never wanted to return to.

“ _I won’t put you back to sleep_ …”


	5. Chapter 5

The thing Harry hated most was the feeling of restlessness, _uselessness,_ in the face of Voldemort’s regime. The feeling that he should be doing something, _anything,_ other than what he was actually doing. But Harry had no plan of action. No grand scheme to thwart Voldemort or his Death Eaters. That had ended years ago, and all that was left was the simmering self-hatred and a doubt that plagued his everyday thoughts.

Since Harry’s encounter with Voldemort, he had not returned to the Room of Requirement. Instead, he slept in his special room in the Slytherin dorms, like he was technically supposed to. It left him feeling odd and angry, and the people around him were quick to notice—so much so that no one stayed around him for too long, convinced that he was bordering on insanity from his time spent with Voldemort. Which may or may not have held some truth. Even the seventh year Slytherins could only tolerate so much, and by the time September was over, Harry social life consisted solely of Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini (the only Slytherin who actually liked Harry’s sharp jokes) and, oddly enough, Snape, who called Harry into his office at least once every week. Snape told him it was only temporary, and that, once he settled back into life at Hogwarts, he would see Harry less—but Harry wasn’t fooled. He knew the new _Headmaster_ had other ideas in his mind to keep Harry close.

Besides all that, Harry now had a constant and present fear of the locket around his throat. He didn’t understand it. How could _Tom Riddle_ be inside of it…? It was like the diary all over again, but at least that made a twisted sort of sense—a memory preserved within its pages for fifty years. But how could a memory be trapped inside a locket? Besides that, what kind of memory acted as though they were conspiring against their own self? It didn’t make _sense._

When October arrived, Harry was also greeted to some unfortunate news: Voldemort was planning a dueling tournament, and all students above second year were required to participate. Harry had not heard a word about it until the actual day, but that was nothing new. Voldemort never informed him of things to come, rather, he seemed to enjoy it when Harry was caught off-guard. Still, the tournament was set to start in the new year, with preparations being made in December for a celebratory ball. To Harry, all of it screamed narcissistic indulgence—Harry just hoped his involvement would be minimal. But then again, he also knew better than to hope.

All of his worries and fears seemed to come to a head when Neville approached him openly with the offer to study together for NEWTS and practice together for the dueling tournament. Harry wanted to believe it was under the guise of a resistance movement, but if it _was_ a revived Order of the Phoenix, they were seriously underestimating his involvement with Voldemort.

Every Saturday evening, Harry now had lessons with Draco, under orders from Snape, to help with his occlumency skills. Draco’s first lesson had Harry clear his mind, which was much harder to do than Draco made it seem. It was no help when Harry would meet with Snape every week either. The man had no qualms about diving into Harry’s mind when he least suspected it. Harry had only managed to conjure basic shields in response, but at least it was something. 

A week before Halloween, Harry awoke to two different things: the locket burning on his chest, and Tom Riddle casually leaning against the bed frame, looking down at him with a small smile. 

Harry scrambled awake, slamming his back against the headboard. How did—how long was he—

“Oh, no need to fret. I’ve only been out a minute or two. I haven’t dared to come out anytime else.” Riddle answered his thoughts, which startled Harry more than he was willing to say.

_How ingrained was Riddle now in Harry…? How close was Riddle to possessing him, like Ginny had been with the diary?_

Still smiling, Riddle read these thoughts as well, and said,

“I’ve already told you. _He_ has already stopped me from possessing you— I can no more take over your body than you can mine. But that doesn’t mean we can’t get along…besides, I have plans, and I know if we cooperate even _Lord Voldemort_ won’t be able to stop us….”

While Riddle was talking, Harry was shaking, his body frozen in denial, but at the same time, knowing that Riddle was speaking only the truth. Riddle had crept closer during his speech, and grabbed Harry’s hands in his frozen stupor, rubbing them softly against his own. Then he whispered the traitorous thoughts even before they had formed within Harry’s own mind,

“And don’t _you_ want to stop Lord Voldemort, _Harry Potter_? I can feel it in your heart, your very _soul_ —you _long_ to be free. Together, we can _both_ be free. If only we work together…

“If you allow me to help you, we can escape. _I_ can help you escape. But all of it will depend on your decision, Harry. Will you agree? Will you give me your word?”

“I—”

_Can’t? Don’t want to? What was it that was truly stopping him from fighting against Voldemort? Fear? Anger? Denial of the truth?_

Harry closed his eyes against the sudden onslaught of tears. He didn’t want to appear weak, but at the same time, Riddle had provoked him enough with his offer of freedom to make Harry an emotional wreak.

“I-If I do …agree…how will—what will—"

“Don’t worry about that. I will do everything else. All I need from you now is your willingness to cooperate…do you want to be free? Tell me,”

And whether it took something out of him to say it, whether cooperating with a memory of Voldemort himself was wrong and caused a horrible sick feeling to settle in his stomach, Harry went against all better judgements and said the words he wished he had the strength to say by himself.

“I-I want to be free.”

* * *

The days passed slowly after that. After agreeing to work with Riddle, the older boy had given him a list of books to take out of the library, some from the restricted section, and some with damning titles such as, _Black Magic and the Soul; Defeating Your Enemies;_ and even _The Dark Lord’s Rise to Power_ , comparing it to the now banned version of _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts._ Although Harry was fearful of what would happen to him if he were caught conspiring against Voldemort, a part of himself he’d long forgotten was relived to be doing something, even if right now it was only reading books. And, for the first time in a long while, Harry felt productive, _happy,_ and not even Halloween could dampen his spirits. He went to classes, did his homework, met with Draco and Snape and kept them, _mostly,_ out of his head. If his progress in the area bothered Snape at all, the man didn’t show it.

On Halloween, there was a party in the Dungeons, courtesy of Slughorn and his desire to keep up with the trends of young people. The man was blatant in his favors towards students of wealthy families, purebloods, or else students who showed remarkable promise in school, whether they were Slytherins or not. Harry was the sole exception to this. It seemed as though the old professor was so fearful of Harry and offending him that he barely looked him in the eye during classes. But while Slughorn was surely scared of Voldemort’s wrath, the man still took the initiative to invite Harry to all of his small gatherings and parties; Harry just never went. This time was no different. Instead of heading out to the party on Halloween like every other Slytherin’s in his year, Harry decided to skip the festivity all together and simply spend his time reading the books Riddle had told him to read. 

He was on the third chapter of _Defeating Your Enemies_ when he noticed a subtle shift in the arrangement of furniture—the addition of a fireplace in his rooms and a green, plush sofa were the tell-tale signs that Voldemort was present—and would be here in a matter of minutes. Harry had not seen the man since their encounter in the Room. He quickly stuffed the book under the clothes in his trunk and waited by the far wall, breathing deeply and attempting to clear his mind.

Sure enough, the door to his room opened and Voldemort strode in. Without preamble, he claimed the couch the signaled for Harry to sit down as well. Harry complied, and had to physically stop himself from shaking when Voldemort pulled him closer by the chin, pulling Harry’s attention away from the fire. His eyes raked over Harry’s form, noting the tiredness under his eyes to the way he bit his lips to prevent them from trembling. 

“ _Love, what are you doing down here, alone, when you should be enjoying Samhain_ _like the rest of the school? I noticed your absence during the party and thought: what could my little snake be doing by himself, hm?”_

 _“I was just…r-reading...I-I didn’t feel like…going.”_ Harry whispered softly, lowering his eyes from the intrusive, bright red ones.

 _"Hn. I’ll let the matter slide this time—in the future, though, I do wish for you to acquaint yourself with the particulars of formal gatherings. You_ will _be attending the winter ball in December, and I won’t have you failing basic etiquette and manners simply because you ‘didn’t feel like going’. Is that clear?”_

_“Yes…”_

“Now then,” Voldemort let him go, switching back to English, “If you don’t feel like going to Slughorn’s party…Samhain is an important occasion, after all, and I don’t want you simply spending it away in your rooms. The spirits are available…would you like to call your parents? Or how about your beloved godfather? I can summon them, if you like…”

_No. No. Please, no._

Harry was shaking his head, but Voldemort simply smiled and said, 

“We will go to the forest, then. Grab your cloak. We will see your parents and godfather—I have something to ask as well.”

* * *

The forest was cold. Harry was numb as they walked over stray branches and fallen leaves, the sky threatening to rain with a mist that hung in the air. Voldemort was slightly ahead of him, leading the way through the trees.

Almost at once, the trail they had been following opened up to a clearing, the woods parting to form a large circular area. Harry distinctly remembered it as the once home of Aragog, Hagrid’s giant pet Acromantula.

Harry watched silently as Voldemort called upon the spirits of the dead. Harry could only silently pray that his parents and godfather _didn’t_ show up.

_Please, don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t come—don’t—_

He shivered when a sudden cold settled deep in his bones, and he knew instinctively that it wasn’t from the wind. Harry closed his eyes when he thought he saw something shift in the air between them.

“Open your eyes.” Voldemort commanded, and the man had come up behind him to wrap his arms around Harry’s shoulders. Harry wanted to move, but he didn’t. He could only open his eyes to stare helplessly at the ghostly shapes of Lily, James, and Sirius….

Lily looked just as beautiful in death as she surely did in life. But her eyes were shining in anger. James looked at Harry, noting the way Voldemort’s arms were draped around him in a twisted, parental hold. Bile was threatening to claw its way up his throat at the look on Sirius’s face—something akin to disgust.

And no one spoke. They didn’t have to.

“I thought you’d be happy to see your son, Lily, James. Was I wrong, perhaps?” Harry didn’t have to look at the man to hear his laughter and smile as he spoke in the ringing silence.

Harry looked down at his feet when he could no longer stand the unbearable stares and silence of his family.

“Shame, I thought you’d say more… Black? Do you have anything to say to your godson?”

“Not with—” Sirius began, stepping forward before James held him back with a hand on his friend’s arm. Harry’s heart ached in his chest at the sound of Sirius’s voice, but then both of them were silent once again.

“I see.” Voldemort said softly, “I guess there’s no point in asking James about his family cloak, then. The dead are determined to keep their secrets. Say goodbye, Harry.”

Unwilling tears came to his eyes, and quite suddenly, Harry didn’t want them to go. Even if they hated him, even if they hated what he had become, he didn’t want to be alone. 

He looked up, just as their figures were fading, to see tears in his mother’s eyes, while his father was looking away in the distance. Sirius looked like he wanted to say something, but with a final shake of his head, he too turned around and disappeared.

In the silence that followed, Harry wished for darkness, and darkness came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter took me a long time, thanks for all the comments, I really enjoy them, and I hope someone likes the chapter, this story is going to be dark, if it's not already lol


	6. Chapter 6

When Harry woke up again, he was back in his bedroom. He closed his eyes as the memories of last night flooded back to him—the look on his father’s face, his mother’s anger, and _Sirius,_ how he had looked like wanted to say something, but in the end decided not to.

Harry wished he could still talk to them…alone, not with Voldemort. Voldemort had ruined everything. But in the end, Harry had also chosen not to say anything— too ashamed, too nauseated with their rejection to even utter a single word.

After a few minutes of crying silently, Harry composed himself. Crying wasn’t going to make things better. Crying wouldn’t stop Voldemort from doing as he pleased. Crying wouldn’t save his friends. 

But while Harry may have stopped himself crying over his dead parents and godfather, by the time he made it down to the Great Hall for breakfast, he was not quite prepared for the news that hit him like a sack of bricks on the morning cover of the _Daily Prophet._

 _The Mysteries of Harry Potter_ was front-page news, followed by an image of Voldemort carrying Harry in his arms on the edge of the forest—likely after he had fallen unconscious last night. Without thinking, Harry found himself embarrassed and angry. How _dare_ he—and who had taken the picture? He stole a spare copy of the news on the table and read against the backdrop of whispering and stares in his general direction. 

_The Mysteries of Harry Potter by Rita Skeeter_

_The Boy-Who-Continues-To-Live is once again making headlines as our Lord is seen carrying an unconscious Harry Potter back to Hogwarts from the edge of the forbidden forest late last night._

_Earlier this September, our Lord surprised everyone by allowing Potter to enroll for his seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—a surprise no one was expecting, as Potter, believed by many to be dead, was instead found alive and in the care of our Lord. While it is most certainly an act of mercy, the question remains: Who is the Boy-Who-Lived? And what is our Lord’s intention in keeping his mysterious ward, once enemy, alive? Many have speculated the reasons, and many have since debated the cause of such a surprising turn of events. While Harry Potter continues to study under strict regulations, some wonder whether it is all a guise—_

Harry skipped over the rest, which would no doubt infuriate him, and which basically kept asking the same probing questions with no definitive answers. He wondered if Voldemort had approved of the article. He must have, in some way. There was no way he _didn’t_ control the press and what articles came out of it. Or maybe he just didn’t care. Harry reasoned this was the most likely case.

He decided to forgo breakfast altogether when the staring and whispers became too much. Even Draco was shifting awkwardly in his seat, looking sideways whenever they made eye contact. So, Harry left earlier than the rest, deciding to use the spare time to get a breath of fresh air, and maybe a small trip down to the kitchens before classes started. He had wanted to go for some time now but had always put it off. He wanted to see if Dobby was still—

Alive, breathing, somewhat happy, maybe, if the circumstances were right. He didn’t dare call out to him, no, Harry would visit the little elf himself, in person.

It was the right thing to do.

Or so he had thought.

* * *

After tickling the pear, Harry entered the kitchens, expecting to see thousands of little elves running around to complete their chores. What he saw instead was a dreary sight—only a handful of the usual number of elves were in sight, moving around slowly as if some heavy weight were on their backs. But the thing that truly made Harry catch his breath and stop all thought was the mop of red hair near the back of the kitchens.

“Ron!” He shouted, sure that it was his friend. The elves nearby glanced at him and scurried out of sight. If Harry had known he was here at Hogwarts, he would have—he for _sure_ would have—Harry hadn’t seen him since—since that time and—

Ron looked up from where he was drinking, and said in a droopy kind of voice,

“Oh, Hullo.”

Harry could tell the kind of face he was making even at a distance—the kind where Ron was struggling to say something, feel something, even though he was clearly drunk out of his mind. 

“I-I saw the paper today. Remarkable, isn’t it? How he still keeps you alive?”

“Ron, I-I’m sorry—”

“Wonder what you did to change his mind….”

Harry’s heart was thumping madly as he rushed over to his friend, who was trying, and failing, to stand up straight. He fell over, and then Harry had a look at what he was wearing. Some kind of stained and grey uniform—with a twist in his gut, Harry realized it was a pillowcase.

“Ron, I’ll help you, I’ll get you out of here, I’m sorry—I didn’t know—"

Ron unexpectedly took a swipe at Harry, but Harry had enough sense to dodge just in time.

“Didn’t know I was here?” Anger seemed to sober Ron, if only for a minute.

“Do you know where my family is _right now_ Harry? Do you know where HERMIONE is, right now? WELL, LET ME TELL YOU A SECRET—I HAVEN’T A BLOODY FUCKING CLUE EITHER!

“I was here since the start of term—funny, isn’t that when you started too? And what is it now? October? November? I’m sorry but I DON’T OWN A FUCKING WAND ANYMORE,”

“AND THE LAST I SAW OF HERMIONE—” Ron’s anger dissipated just as quickly as it came, and instead he wept, falling over into a heap, “The last I saw of Hermione, fucking _Bellatrix Lestrange_ had—”

Harry didn’t know what to do. His heart was screaming at him, his mind blank except for—Bellatrix had Hermione? It was too insane, but all too plausible for someone like Voldemort.

Without meaning to, Harry retched.

* * *

He knew he was dreaming. The edges of the room were too soft, the shadows too crisp, and the air too warm to be entirely real. Harry stepped into the all too familiar room with a sense of dread. 

When the door slammed open, Harry watched with detachment as Voldemort walked across the room, dragging Harry by his hair.

“It seems I overestimated you yet again, Harry. I asked you to do one, tiny thing, and this is how you repay me?” Voldemort threw him across the floor, then swiftly cast the crucatious curse. Harry watched in silence as his younger self screamed for half a minute. Voldemort lifted the spell.

“You will complete this task, Harry. Let me in, and I _may_ let you see your friends—”

Harry watched himself lay on the floor, curling inwards from the pain, debating the merits of doing what Voldemort asked, if only to see his friends. Harry knew that he had seriously contemplating giving in then. Let Voldemort cast the _Imperio_ and _let_ him take over— and Harry could almost hear the inner mantra that had been his daily struggle, back then….

_Don’t fight now, fight later, don’t fight now, fight later…_

But when Voldemort cast Imperio at him again, Harry had fought. Harry had fought against it again, and again, and though he had been half unconscious at the time, Harry still remembered the sigh of frustration from Voldemort as he cast another crucatious, this time for half a minute longer.

As Harry watched himself scream, he wondered what time had done to his willingness to fight back. After so many failures, it was only natural to give up eventually. But back then, Harry had fought. Harry had fought with everything he had, and it had earned him nothing but pain and punishment. At the time, it seemed only natural to give in to the pain with a promise to fight Voldemort later. What good would fighting now accomplish when Harry had no power to fight back? But… when was later? When was Harry ever supposed to fight Voldemort? Was it now? Now that everything had seemed to settle down, and Voldemort was no longer there to watch over him every moment of the day?

Did he expect Harry to simply study silently and obediently at Hogwarts, or did he know of the resentment Harry still harbored for him?

He didn’t know. And somehow, he found that he didn’t want to know either.

* * *

When Harry woke up, he was surprised to find himself still in the kitchens. He was laying on a small couch in front of a fireplace, and Ron was nowhere to be seen.

He sat up suddenly, dread filling him as he cast quick tempus to find out that he had missed nearly all of his morning classes, and it was now the late afternoon. As Harry inwardly cursed his inability to stay out of trouble, he saw a note from Ron lying on the floor beside him.

_Sorry I yelled. I have to go…you know, elf stuff. Find me again, preferably tonight. We should talk._

_Ron_

Harry felt an overwhelming gratitude then, that Ron hadn’t abandoned him too, and they could meet again tonight. Harry understood the anger from Ron, but it was undeniably relieving to see that he was willing to talk, to listen to Harry…

Harry folded up the little paper note and gathered his books together from where they had fallen. He still had potion class, after all, and Harry was determined not to draw any more attention to himself.

Meeting Dobby would have to wait, Harry told himself, even as the elves scrambled away from him in fear. Harry wondered if it was just him, or if they were scared of all wizarding kind nowadays.

Feeling lightheaded, but glad he had found Ron in all the mess that was his life, Harry headed down to the dungeons to catch his class before he missed that one too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the comments, they always make me happy :) I will probably post again to this story before winter break is over lol


	7. Chapter 7

Harry was feeling nervous when he snuck out of his bedroom and headed down to the kitchens that very same night. He was going to see Ron again. He was going to see his friend for the first time in over a year. And that, above all else, is what kept him moving beyond the dark dungeon corridors and into light of the kitchens. Tickling the pear once more, Harry entered the painting and this time, was not so startled by minimal house-elves stationed around the area. They fled once they saw him, all except for one, and Harry had tears in his eyes when he saw the many hats upon his head, and his feet slipping upon numerous socks.

“Dobby!” Harry yelled, and the little elf flinched at Harry’s voice. Harry frowned, but moved forward anyway. He had missed—and Dobby still wore his hats and socks despite everything that had happened. Harry wanted to give him a hug but restrained himself purely because Dobby seemed to be restraining himself too.

“H-Harry Potter sir! I’s meaning to tell you—your Wheezy friend is in the backs of the kitchens—”

“Dobby! I—I’m—"

“Harry Potter needs no apologizes sir…Dobby knows… Dobby sees how Harry Potter is hurting, a-and D-Dobby will always be there for Harry Potter sir…but—but—” At this, the elf started to shake, then he let out a howling wail and hit himself in the forehead.

“D-Dobby is not allowed to speak to Harry Potter any longer! M-Master has forbidden it…Dobby will hurt himself later for this!”

“No Dobby! Please, I—I understand. Just— please d-don’t hurt yourself, please, Dobby. I-I’m sorry too. Y-You don’t have to speak to me. Just promise…not to hurt yourself…”

Dobby had tears in his eyes, 

“Harry Potter is too kind sir…Dobby is sorry…” The elf’s ears deflated visibly, and Harry’s heart nearly broke when he spoke softly, “Dobby has to go now…”

Harry watched as Dobby shuffled away to where the other elves were hiding near the edges of the kitchen. Harry had wanted to ask... he had seen bruises around Dobby’s eyes, and a few spots on his arms too. It was no doubt whoever Dobby was serving was also abusing the little elf.

Harry moved into the back of the large kitchen area. There was a door beside the fireplace he had not seen before, and when Harry ducked into it, he was swallowed by a wave of red, flaming hair.

“Harry! I-I thought you wouldn’t come. I thought—I’m sorry I yelled I just—was drinking and—”.

“Ron.” Harry hugged him back tightly, never wanting to let go. It felt as though a lifetime had passed, and yet, no time at all as he was swamped in the warmth of his best friend. 

When Harry pulled back, Ron was visibly crying, but wiped his tears with the back of his hand and gave Harry a rather shaky smile,

“Never thought I’d see you in Slytherin, Harry. The colours don’t really suit you.” Ron laughed, and even though he was joking, Harry could see the tenseness in his posture, waiting to see how Harry would respond.

“Yeah, I—if it were up to me I would definitely…go back to Gryffindor.”

The unspoken reason of why it wasn’t up to him hung in the air, but Ron merely smiled and said,

“Great to see you, mate. Merlin, I missed you. Come in! I—it’s not much, but—"

He moved aside and Harry saw how his friend was living for the first time on over a year. There was a bed in the corner with thin looking sheets, and a few cupboards along the sides, but otherwise, there was nothing else to note. Feeling his stomach twist in guilt—Harry had lived far better, even at the Dursley’s, but knowing there was virtually nothing he could do, at least for now, Harry and Ron settled down on the floor to talk.

“So how— how did you—”

“How did I get here, you mean?” Ron smiled, but Harry saw his smile was thin, breaking off around the edges until he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“It’s not a long story, to tell you the truth. After we were captured, well, you know what happened then…they kept me in a cell for most of the time…Hermione and I were together until last year, when they decided we were better off being ‘put to use’.” Ron scowled.

“So—so you’re—”

“A house-elf? No, not quite. I don’t have the same magic, but they certainly tried. See this?” Ron showed him his wrist, which Harry hadn’t noticed before, but a thick black band was wrapped around it, kind of like a muggle tattoo.

“It’s a bind on my magic. I can’t use a wand anymore, as long as this thing is still on me. I can still use simple magic, though, and I’ve been practicing wandless. Watch this—!”

With his face concentrated on his palm, Harry watched, amazed, as a tiny ball of light was suddenly shining. But when Ron’s face cracked a grin, clearly distracted by his success, the ball of light vanished instantly.

“I have to keep my mind on it, otherwise it doesn’t last. I can also move things too, but that’s a bit more difficult…”

“T-That’s amazing Ron! How does it work? Do you just think of the spell?”

“Well,” Ron was blushing at the praise, and Harry saw that Ron liked having to explain things to him. It was the first time Harry had seen his friend so intrigued by spell work, and he knew instinctively that Hermione would have been proud.

“It’s not exactly thinking of the spell…see, you can say the words, and do the movements with your hands, but that doesn’t always work. You kind of have to imagine it, like with the light, and believe it will work. When you feel something, your magic, moving inside of you, only then can you channel it. But never mind that, where was I?” Ron shook his head, then continued on with his story.

“After binding my magic, they thought I should do servitude work, like the other blood traitors, I suppose. I—I don’t know where my family is, but I thought I heard once in my cell… when Lestrange was talking… about Fred and George working for _Umbridge_.

And I think…Bill and Charlie managed to escape…before Dumbledore died. I think… mum and dad were with them, and Ginny too, thank god…. And just before I was going to be sent to some workhouse, for some reason they changed their minds and sent me to Hogwarts instead. Can’t really say I’m happy to be back, but it’s better than working in some place where I don’t even know what’s going on. At least here, I’ve seen Neville and know somewhat of the resistance that’s—”

“Wait! Don’t—don’t tell me anymore. I— _he_ sometimes—”

“Oh. _Oh!_ Sorry. Can we still…?”

“Yeah, I’m—I’m learning how to block my mind. It’s still rough, but hopefully I can do it…”

“Well, that’s a relief. So how have you been…? What happened to you? Do you know why you’re still… alive?”

When Ron said this, his voice cracked a little, as though he was doubting his own words. Harry remembered how yesterday, when Ron had been drinking, his friend had accused Harry of somehow bribing Voldemort into letting him live. It wasn’t unexpected. It was a rumour that many people believed. Coming from his friend though, the accusation hurt.

“I honestly don’t know why I’m alive, Ron. But I’ve been thinking…it might have something to do with our connection. I think—”

“What’s that?” Ron interrupted suddenly, pointing to his neck.

“Oh, that—it’s… a locket. V-Voldemort is making me wear it. I think it’s like—” He stopped, suddenly very aware of how hot the locket was against his skin. Was he not supposed to say it was _like the diary_? Was Riddle warning him not to share that piece of information with his friend? With his heart beating wildly, Harry decided to lie when the burning became too much. 

“It’s…just a piece of jewelry. I can’t take it off though, I’ve already tried.”

“R-Really, huh…” Ron was distinctly embarrassed, looking away. Harry understood why. He himself could hardly imagine why Voldemort would give his enemy a piece of jewelry to wear. It didn’t make sense.

Soon, their conversation drifted back to the topics Harry didn’t want to mention, not even to one of the only people in the world who could possibly understand. Whenever Harry came close to revealing some of the things that had happened during his time with Voldemort, his hands would tremble, and when Ron noticed Harry was very uncomfortable to share with him, they broke off into talking about something else, like what Ron’s duties were as a servant, or how evil the system of oppression was, or even where they thought Hermione might be, with Bellatrix, or maybe somewhere else entirely.

Eventually Harry had to say goodbye, with the promise to return whenever he could. They agreed to meet only during the night, not only because it was Ron’s free time, but Harry didn’t want to arouse any suspicion by coming down here too often. When they finally separated from another hug, and Harry headed back down to the dungeons, he vowed to find a way to help Ron escape. Maybe he couldn’t do anything now, but perhaps he could convince Riddle to help Ron too. It was worth a shot, and besides, the more allies they had, the better their chances were, right?

When Harry fell asleep in his bed, he dreamt of a world where he was and his friends were free, where Voldemort had been defeated in the war, and maybe he had even married Ginny. Ginny was nice. Harry could even say he rather liked Ginny. But then that creeping voice in the back of his head would say the words he didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to _think_ about.

 _Ginny wouldn’t love you. Ginny_ couldn’t _love you. Because who could love you?_

And as Harry’s thoughts turned darker, his dream world shattered into oblivion, and Ginny’s lovely brown eyes distorted into a violent, red gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the comments :) This is hopefully a more lighthearted chapter, Harry needs his friends lol... I need to update my other stories too, but this one just sticks for some reason, I keep on wanting to write more for it lol. Hope someone enjoys the chapter, thanks for reading :)


	8. Chapter 8

The next few weeks passed by in a blur. After meeting with Ron, and the disaster that was Halloween night, Harry had redoubled his efforts to read the books Riddle had outlined for him. They weren’t very interesting, but he could see why Riddle was making him read them before doing anything else— Riddle had warned him that things could get very tricky in the near future, and they needed to move cautiously, or everything could be ruined.

Harry had also received a letter from Slughorn one early November morning, who stated quite plainly that he was to join the Slug Club for the rest of the year for practice in social gatherings, courtesy of the Dark Lord. Harry had very nearly set the letter on fire before he saw that a number of people were observing him, including Snape from the Head Table. So instead, he folded the letter and stuck it in his bag. The letter had said there was a meeting tonight at six, but Harry pushed that thought aside in favor of eating his breakfast. He wasn’t all that hungry but decided that it was better to have something in his stomach than nothing.

As another day passed by uneventfully, Harry ended up standing in front of Slughorn’s office at six. He didn’t want to be here, but Harry also didn’t want to attract any more attention by _not_ going. He had learned that the hard way on Halloween, and besides, he was also planning to meet with Riddle again tonight, which was enough havoc in itself for one day.

Harry knocked gently on the door, and when Slughorn arrived, pale and downcast at Harry’s expected arrival (it would seem neither Harry nor Slughorn wanted him to be there), Harry was let into the large, modestly decorated room. Some Slytherin’s were already seated down at the table (Harry gave a small nod to Draco, the only one he knew), along with a few Ravenclaw’s, two Hufflepuff’s, and, not entirely strange, no Gryffindors. 

“Welcome, Mr. Potter, to the SlugClub. Just take a seat over there and we can begin.”

Harry noted how stiffly Slughorn had greeted him, but he didn’t care to think too much about it. He wasn’t here of his own volition, and they both knew it. Harry wondered how many of the others knew it too, if by their assessing eyes, or a small smirk when Harry sat down at the far end of the table, the furthest away from Slughorn and his favourites. He knew why, of course—Slughorn was only protecting himself should anything happen—but still, it settled something odd in Harry’s stomach at the man’s silent refusal to meet his eyes, or even offer him basic, human interaction beyond a shaky greeting. 

Harry was barely awake when Slughorn talked about his numerous successful students over the years, and Harry was amused to note that many of the other students were sitting in boredom too. When the conversation turned to what everyone was planning on doing after graduation, Harry was only just listening when Slughorn skipped over Harry’s turn entirely, but not before one of the Hufflepuffs, idiotically, called him out on it. Slughorn was forced to look at Harry, perhaps for the first time that night.

“O-Oh of course, how silly of me! Mr. Potter, what are your plans after…?”

Harry sent a mild glare at the Hufflepuff before he spoke, in a tone full of conviction, said the only thing he had ever planned on becoming before he was taken captive and forced to pretend like his life wasn’t being controlled by a madman.

“I plan on becoming an Auror.” Harry said to the startled faces before him, “You know, killing Dark wizards. Like _Voldemort_ , for example.”

Everyone flinched. It didn’t surprise Harry, but it struck him how easily he could manipulate these people into acting how he wanted. Their fear of Voldemort, their fear of him. When somebody coughed into the quiet Harry had made, Slughorn tried to reign in on the awkwardness. 

“I-Is that so? Well, certainly, it is—”

“Professor,” A fifth year Slytherin spoke up, Harry didn’t catch his name, “As Potter is obviously… _volatile_ and dangerous, isn’t it better if we exclude him from the Slugclub…? I thought this club was for exclusive students only—Potter is nothing special, he only—”

“No, no, Mr. Whitehall, I’m afraid… this is out of my hands— it can’t be done.” Slughorn said to the group at large, “Now, Mr. Potter will be joining us for the rest of the year. Are there any other objections? No? Well then, let’s continue where we left off…”

Harry didn’t listen to the remainder of the session. Inside, he was burning with anger and humiliation. It was a far cry from the apathy he had felt before. He wondered what had happened to change that....

* * *

When the clock finally chimed eight, Harry was the first to exit, but instead of heading back to his room in the Slytherin dorms, he veered towards an empty classroom in the dungeons to talk to Riddle. He wasn’t in the mood, but he also didn’t trust that they would have any more free time to talk without interference. So far, their conversations had been limited to what Harry had been reading, while Riddle quizzed him on the more practical side of his learning. Now that Harry had finally finished the books Riddle had wanted him to read, he wondered what they would do next.

“There are a few things I have in mind.” Riddle said, when Harry asked him in the privacy of the classroom.

Riddle was leaning against an old desk, while Harry was standing awkwardly by the door. Harry had yet to become comfortable around Riddle, despite the fact that they agreed to work together. Riddle had, so far, kept his distance, and Harry wasn’t too keen on trusting Riddle completely either. He was, after all, just a different form of Voldemort himself.

“The first thing I had in mind,” Riddle’s voice brought Harry back to reality, “is that there is a dueling competition starting next term. As well, a celebratory ball is being held at the end of December. As I understand it, you will be expected to participate in both, correct?”

Harry nodded.

“Good. I shan’t tell you the exact details of my plans, Salazar knows how much _he_ likes to scour your mind, but I will say this: both of these events are crucial to our success. Now, the other thing I had in mind for you to do is… far more subtle.” Riddle looked at him funny, then, like he was assessing how good Harry could be at being ‘subtle’.

“Considering your little outburst in Slughorn’s club today, I’m not sure how well you can do this next task.”

Harry scowled, about to retort, when Riddle started walking closer.

“To be fair, I can’t see anyone else doing it, nor do I believe he would fall for such an obvious trick.”

Riddle stopped just before Harry, while Harry had collided with the wall. “No, it wouldn’t work with anyone else. He would see through it. The truth is…he will see through you too. But it has to be _you_.”

Riddle smiled, and Harry’s stomach dropped.

“We need information. About the ball. About the tournament. About his plans for your future, after graduation.”

“But I can’t—"

“No one else can do it _but_ you, Harry. Because even though he will see through you, he will indulge you anyway. He likes you. Use it.”

“But how do I…?”

“Entice him. Capture his attention. Seduce him, for all I care. But get the information, one way or another, before the winter holidays.”

Riddle stepped closer, then, and Harry’s heart stopped when he leaned forward to whisper in Harry’s ear.

“Do be careful, love. He will match you at whatever game you decide to play.”

And with that final note, Riddle disappeared back into the locket, leaving Harry to wonder how on earth he was supposed to do what Riddle had just suggested.

Was Riddle _crazy?_ This wouldn’t work! But then, what else was Harry supposed to do to get Voldemort to stop keeping him in the dark? If it would get him the information Riddle needed….

Capture his attention. If Harry thought about it like this… then maybe he could do it…before the winter holidays…maybe he could—

As Harry stepped out of the classroom to head back to the Slytherin dorms, his thoughts were swirling on how he could get the information out of Voldemort without seeming so… obvious. But first, he needed to go to sleep. Harry was exhausted, and besides, he had an entire month to figure out how to… _entice_ the Dark Lord into revealing important information.

He never made it.


End file.
